Sentidos
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Glass slides under his fingers and shatters at his feet and he can see it.


Disclaimer: The writing is mine, the characters are really not ...  
Set: Post OUaTiM

… **sight**

"I know where it is. I _know _where it_ is_." Glass slides under his fingers and shatters at his feet and he can see it. Whatever - he can picture it. Imagine it. Fuck it, for all he knows one of Mengele's spawn is using an effects tape to screw with him.

The laughter comes on all sides, riding on tequila-worm breath past nicotine teeth and he can see the yellow in the air, staining everything it touches. It touched him a long time ago.

His hand lashes out because it can, sending a jug off the table too, and – fuck you - he can see that as well. The shards are long and ragged and they'll never get all the pieces out of the wall. And that's fine. That's fine because it's fine.

It's all fine. It's all … fine.

Fine.

Shadows and shapes and set them up and watch them fall and he sees the needle edged in red, laughs and kicks out and he feels the body hit the floor before he sees the man falling back and he _saw_ and he knows he did.

"You _see_ now? You _see_ what I'm saying?"

Hands have him, pulling at him, snatching and tugging and tearing and he sees the sinners on the lake of fire behind the eyelids he doesn't have. Or maybe it was just a movie, etched in red gore.

The needle slides in and he snaps his teeth and catches something metal. Someone shrieks and he jerks his head until the chain cuts into his lips and then he smiles to stretch the wound and let the blood flow down his chin, because then they'll see him like he sees them.

And then they're gone and there's fingers running though his hair, peeling it out of the sockets to let it hang against his skin, glued with sweat and infection that runs down to pool at his neck and he can just see it. See the flies and the hatching and …

"Why … is he here?"

There's a scorpion ready to strike. He can see it.

Rough fingers on his forehead and the smell of resin and ashes, little bells, silver edged darkness to scatter what the dope left of his mind.

… **sound**

This isn't right, this isn't right at all and he'll be complaining at the highest level of the Agency just as soon as a secure line comes in. El wasn't there when they took his eyes so El can't be here now and it only stands to reason because they take his eyes every day with thin metal and yellow, _yellow_, oblivion.

"The men, they bought him. They said to keep him."

Cursed them out for playing God and listened to expensive Italian shoes and working American lunches squeaking away on wasted floors. They don't get to do that, not here, _he_ plays God here. His beat, his divine _fucking_ will. And then it gets pointed out the position is already filled and he's always been an Old Testament guy. Eye for an eye. Eye for an I. I for an eye.

They disavowed him but that's okay and that's okay because he was already gone.

"In this … filth?"

Oh, that's good, he shakes as he laughs and makes no noise to disturb the eulogy. The careful inflection in the tone, every vowel stretching with mocking Spanish disgust and he can hear the victims shifting. And they're all victims now because El is here to clear up the loose ends and Kevorkian's biggest fan is speaking like he doesn't know he's dead.

"We have not been paid in some time."

"Then he comes with me."

"I …"

"He comes … with me."

Click. C-Click.

Glock, safety always pulls just a little when the round is chambered; a double hit for a double tap and now it's real and real has never sounded so good but it's nowhere close to home.

The man moves to a beat. Walks to the beat, runs to a beat, kills to a beat. All you have to do to own him is know the song. He thought he caught it, just on the edges, but then the chorus bridged.

Bullets sing in a harmony if you listen, death in octaves; high enough to break glass, low enough to make you slide away.

… **scent**

The highway is bleached white in the sun, a skeleton lying in the desert while vultures feed on the living and it still smells yellow. It can be fucking yellow if he wants. If he can't see it, he's going to smell it and you, you fucker, can like it.

Stop laughing, there's nothing to laugh about. The bottle's empty and the smokes are gone and why isn't he dead.

He's meant to be dead.

And if he can't be dead, he wants to be clean. Scrub the yellow away, even red's better than that.

Hands hold his nails away from his eyes and he waits for the needle until he remembers the needle is gone.

He bites his lip until the blood washes him clean again and wonders how he's meant to know he's not dreaming anymore. Does he even sleep anymore?

Wheels eat the miles but the smell of jasmine stays close.

It blooms in the night.

… **touch**

Water is cool and the metal is hot and the palm against his cheek steadying him so he can drink is calloused and gentle and he wants it gone so he slaps it away and flinches as the water sprays over his face.

Fingers do the walking, up to plastic and metal over holes, down to a split lip still salty with blood and sweat, stinging and bittersweet with whatever they had been juicing him with.

No pain. There hadn't been pain.

Had he slept? He must have slept. Did he dream? How much did he dream? Silver bells making a promise they didn't keep.

"Do you know where you are?"

"You kidnapped me, _El_, aren't you supposed to know where you're taking me?"

"You were drugged."

"Yeah, well. Where, why, how and why again just in case I didn't get it the first time. Report, soldier."

"You're still drugged."

"High on life."

"Where … why … Does it matter?"

"No." And it doesn't. The world is narrow and dark and nothing matters beyond what he can touch.

"Are you thirsty?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

The hand returns and this time he lets it stay, this time he knows he's awake because asleep there are only nightmares and awake there's only desperation.

… **taste**

Dust smells orange now and soon it will feel grey. It lines his throat and makes everything taste of road kill.

El will bring him food he won't eat and buy him tequila he doesn't like and then he'll bitch until they fight and he can almost taste the blood in his mouth that will prove he's awake.

And then they'll find another bar or anther hacienda and the bullets will sing halle-_fucking_-lujah and maybe this time he'll take enough eyes to make it right. And maybe this time the promise will be kept.

For now there's silver bells in the darkness moving to a beat he has to follow and still can't understand and it's somewhere between nightmare and desperation … which is almost like home.

Guilt tastes like ashes in his mouth, but it isn't his; so he spits and wipes his lips and drinks the last of the tequila to take it away.


End file.
